


A Horse of a Different Color

by Shinsun



Category: Hotblood!
Genre: Centaurs, Characters That Didn't Even Show Up In The Comic, Explicit Sexual Content, Gratuitous Centaur Sex, Headcanons Aplenty, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rimming, Soulmates Seeing Color AU, Teratophilia, War flashbacks, bartender Langley, bounty hunter Rook, love at first sight kinda, unrequited love kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3146873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinsun/pseuds/Shinsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Color Soulmate AU: Everyone in the world sees in black and white, but when you make eye-contact with your soulmate, you can suddenly see color, which is brighter the closer you are to them, and gets duller the further you are away. </p><p>Rook is a hitman charged with killing Langley, who is a bartender in a one-horse town in Nebraska. But a rather large hole is put in the plan when the two lock eyes for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so I'm a huge, huge fan of starlock's comic Hotblood! ...I have become completely obsessed over it I'm not even joking. But I saw that fanfics seem to be scant so far, since it's so new, and most of them are only by one person (the lovely emmykay, your fics are delicious). So I thought, hell with it, I might as well try my hand. 
> 
> Knowing me, though, this is probably going to turn out ridiculously long with a confusing or nonexistent plot and an unreasonable amount of angst, drama, and horse crap...not literally...including bad horse jokes and probably horse-related racism. Since it's centaurs. I mean come on. 
> 
> Anyhow, I'll just have to see how this goes, depending on my motivation and such. Usually my first fics for a fandom don't turn out too great, but get progressively better as I get less ignorant and more comfortable with the characters. So we'll all keep our fingers crossed for higher quality, alright?

It was bitterly cold. The looming shadows of the buildings cast the deserted street in a murky black, swallowing up James’ hoofprints, the falling flakes of snow, and everything else around except for a single window, rotting in its frame at the entrance to the bar. The weight of the pistol at his hip was compelling, reminding him why he was here, but the promise of a different weight in his pockets, just as metallic as the gun, but brighter, looser and happier, kept him putting one hoof in front of the other. He could almost hear his reward merrily jingling its way over to him now. Tugging his scarf over his nose to try to conserve his body heat and his identity, he slipped through the door to the bar -- about as subtly as he could, considering he towered over everyone there and couldn’t silence the hollow thud of hooves on the floorboards. Just a quick, easy job; take out the bartender to satisfy some some steel magnate’s grudge, and then he would have his bounty. And hopefully somewhere warm to sleep; he’d spotted an inn on the way over here. With his luck they’d probably tell him to sleep in the neighbouring stable.

It was easy to spot his man. Slouching behind the bar, idly swilling a rag through a cloudy glass, seeming to only make it dirtier the harder he tried to clean it. He was relatively tall -- by human standards -- and lanky, with his greasy black hair swept back with an attempt at neatness. He couldn’t see his eyes from here, but from his body language he would have guessed they were sharp and calculating. This man was smart; his employer had neglected to mention that. _So this is Asa Langley_ … he thought to himself, approaching with practiced calm and leaning an arm casually on the grimy surface of the bar. _Nothing remarkable. And after tonight, God willing, nothing whatsoever._

“What can I do you for?” Langley muttered without looking up, concentrating on the murky glass and the rag in his hand.

James grudgingly acknowledged that he couldn’t very well shoot him right here, in plain sight, with all these people watching. The resulting chaos would be...inconvenient. He would have to bide his time; wait for his moment. Luckily, a few years with this shitty excuse for a job had given him some patience.

“Bourbon,” he replied dismissively, slapping a few bills on the table. A paltry amount of money compared to what he would be earning tonight, and either way he could always steal it back once the deed was done. _Technically free whiskey; gotta be one of the only perks of this fucking job._

The man turned his back completely to comply -- the utter vulnerability of the position inciting James’ tail to switch over his haunches, with the awareness that were it not for the place being crowded, this Langley guy would already be dead -- and then slid his request across the stretch of wood separating them, quickly swiping for his payment with his free hand. _Money-grubber, huh? We’ve got that in common._

Langley sifted through the bills, and then half-smirked at them, “You ain’t from around here, are ya? For straight whiskey you owe me double this.”

James raised an eyebrow. _Rephrase. **Extreme** money-grubber._ But he forked over the cash anyway without comment, studying Langley intently while he had a moment. He was a little greedy, and judging from his speech patterns and body language -- and refusal to meet his customers’ eyes --  probably rude, but he didn’t seem malicious, at least not from the look of him. He wondered what it was about this guy that his boss so desperately wanted snuffed out. _Maybe my boss is the malicious one. The creeps I work for generally are._

Throwing back half the whiskey, paying no mind to the burn in his throat and nose or the unsanitary state of the glassware, he almost missed when Langley decided to speak to him again, this time actually turning to face him.

“A bit early for the hard drinkers to show up,” he said sleekly, tilting his head up slightly to meet James’ eye, “What’s your --?”

He broke off, abruptly, his dark eyes going very wide. James heard the crisp tinkle of shattering glass and guessed that he’d dropped the one he’d been cleaning on the floor. He took several frightful steps back from James, almost crashing into the shelves of mugs and snifters behind him. He looked petrified, pure and simple, his already pale face going white as a sheet.

“What, you ain’t ever seen a centaur before?” James asked warily, shifting his weight from hoof to hoof with unease. That must have been it, preposterous as it might have seemed. He didn’t think his reputation as a bounty hunter was very renowned, nor did he think knowledge of him would reach this far. But this Langley person was definitely staring at him as if he’d spontaneously sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead, or something. He glanced over his shoulder quickly, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. _Even if there was someone behind me, it’d have to be the Devil himself to get that kind of reaction._

“....H-holy shit,” was all Langley was able to manage, one hand reaching up slowly to cover his mouth. His gaze snapped away from James, darting haphazardly over the walls and the ceiling and the bottles of brandy, ale, and beer behind him, as if trying to keep track of a spastic grasshopper leaping all around his bar. _So...it’s not me, then. Maybe this is why I was hired to kill this guy; seems like he’s off his rocker._

Finally Langley seemed to calm himself down -- or at least remembered to breathe; he still seemed pretty stricken -- but his eyes didn’t stop roving  around the bar. Slower now, but they were no less wide and shocked than before. In fact, now that the terror seemed to have faded a bit, James might even have said he seemed to be in awe. Confused and irritated, he picked up his glass and took another swig, draining most of its contents. Langley followed with his eyes, seeming to watch the whiskey disappear down his throat with utter fascination.

Slamming the glass down, James crossed his arms defensively, “Okay, you’re seriously freakin’ me out, what’s your deal?”

“I never knew it was…” Langley said softly, staring at the last few dregs of liquid in the cup, then back at James. He shook his head quickly, as if trying to clear it, “Sorry. Excuse me a minute.”

Even only knowing him for two seconds, that stiff politeness seemed terribly forced and out of character. James squinted at him as he turned on his heel and left, but said nothing, resisting an urge to stomp with frustration. He was not a colt anymore, but really, this was supposed to be a simple job.

 _At least he’s giving me my chance to strike_ , he reasoned, pushing the empty whiskey glass away with his fingertips and rolling his shoulders to loosen up, his tail swishing with anticipation. _Time to finish this and get the fuck out of here._

 

X

 

Asa was still reeling. The pasty walls of the hallway weren’t nearly as bright as the sudden smack of...heat, intensity -- _red_ , it must have been -- that he’d come face-to-face with when he laid eyes on his last customer, but even the dingy grey-ish of the wood was shocking. Because it was only grey-ish, not grey; there were hints of brown and green and even blue lurking in the faded, moldering boards. He’d heard stories of this phenomenon -- never believed them for a second, but he’d heard -- how there were parts of the world that ordinary people couldn’t see, other dimensions, other _colors_ , that gave everything, from the startling green of the beer bottles to the blazing red of a certain centaur, a different mood, and a flare of life he’d never imagined could exist in inanimate objects.

 _Jesus, I need a fuckin’ smoke_. Leaning against the wall, he instinctively reached in his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it -- and nearly dropping both it and the match in shock. Who knew even _fire_ had its own color? Similar to the burning orange and red of that centaur’s hair and lower body, with a little lick of blue at the bottom. It was definitely bright, glowing with heat and energy, but still, strangely, the flash of color didn’t seem as intense as before. Placing the cigarette between his teeth --   _Smoke’s still just boring ol’ grey, I see…_ \-- he glanced around and noted that actually, none of the hues surrounding him seemed as harsh or intense as they’d been before, when he looked that centaur in the eye and suddenly everything exploded into chaos and brightness. Pity. Maybe those old stories held another grain of truth, and the further away he got from that...that _man_ , the duller and muddier they would become.

Letting out a deep exhalation, watching the wisps of smoke spiral up to the ceiling, he grudgingly acknowledged his diversionary tactic when mentally referring to that...person. He almost grimaced as the proper term from the stories flitted across his mind: _soulmate_. It seemed entirely too glitzy and sugary of a term, especially for such a hard, gruff man, from another man who was equally so. Laughing ruefully to himself, he realized that he could very well try to fight it kicking and screaming, but he’d heard in the old tales what happened to those who resisted. And besides, he’d already been given a pretty insistent reason to want to be closer to that strange -- _shocking_ , actually, was the more fitting term -- person, if only because he wanted to see the striking intensity of those colors...those greens and blues and reds...again. He hadn’t expected to ever face such a predicament. He snorted; he didn’t even know the poor bastard’s name. Besides all that, just his luck -- he ran into a fucking fairy tale come to life, and it came with four legs and a tail.

Yes, he nodded absently to himself, he was well and truly fucked.

Something stuck out to him, though, as he took a last drag from his cigarette and let it drop to the floor, snuffing it out under his -- _brown_ \-- boot. When he’d heard of all this soulmate bullshit in the stories, it had always seemed...to go both ways. Two people are fated to meet, cliché cliché cliché, and then boom, they both suddenly see in color. But the person back there had given no indication that anything was different on his end. _Maybe it doesn’t work on centaurs_ … He didn’t know if horses could only see in black and white, but centaur eyes weren’t like horses’ eyes, as far as he knew, so that should have been irrelevant anyway.

He was jerked out of his thoughts, not realizing how pronounced the frown in his forehead had been becoming, at the clack of hooves against the beams under his feet.

“What’re you -?” He began, looking up. He only had a split-second to register that same slap-in-the-face amazement at the increased brightness of color, before one of the centaur’s large hands was sealed over his mouth, the other --wielding a pistol -- cuffing him over the head smartly with the butt of it, plunging the brand new array of intensive color around him into total blackness.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Asa's eyes opened groggily, his head throbbing with a vengeance, and the first thing to come into focus was the barrel of a gun, aimed directly at his forehead.

"Fuck -!" he grit out, breaking off and struggling to escape the point-blank range of the pistol, only to realize the effort was futile; he couldn't budge. His back was pressed against a solid wooden beam, his arms tied securely behind his back, more ropes constraining his legs at the knees. He stopped straining against his bonds for a moment and tried to think his way out of this. It was dark, a chink of moonlight filtering through a slatted window above. Around him were crates of bottles and other supplies; he must have been in the bar's cellar. Directly across from him was the startling red centaur from before - he had to blink rapidly to adjust to the fiery intensity of color; he almost seemed to be radiating heat - holding a pistol up against his head.  _Why the hell hasn't he fired yet? What's he waiting for…?_

"Asa Langley?" the centaur said warily, hands clenching on the pistol in his grip.

"What the fuck are you tryin'a do you psychotic son of a bitch?" Asa snapped, pulling viciously against the ropes again, to no avail.

The man blinked, and past the hard lines of determination, Asa thought he glimpsed a hint of amusement in his face, "Well you've gotta mouth on you, I'll give you that, but I don't think that's a good enough reason."

"Reason for what?" Asa growled, cursing his eyes for continuing to scan over the person with fascination; this was  _no_  time to be staring like a brain-dead idiot...even if all the color in the room seemed to be pouring outward from him. Like he was a big, fucking red sunrise or some shit.

The centaur shrugged, about as well as he could manage with his arms outstretched, clutching the gun aimed at Asa's face, "To hire me to kill you."

Asa's fingers flexed experimentally, and he tried to twist his wrists enough to slip one of them through the ropes. It was no use, he would have to break his thumbs to get out of them, and that seemed a little drastic. Breathing out slowly, trying to keep a cool head despite the ominous threat of the gun staring him in the face, he decided his best bet was to stall for time.

"Why d'you need a reason?" he tried, eyes flitting around the room, searching half-heartedly for some aid, some advantage to help spring him from this predicament.

The man's tail flicked against his leg, drawing Asa'a gaze to the intensely colored banner, and he watched it sway hypnotically behind his kidnapper as he spoke flatly, "Because my conscience ain't exactly on board with me shootin' innocent folks. I got enough of that t' last a lifetime."

Asa nodded absently, not really listening. His mind kept racing, trying to think of a scenario, no matter how far-fetched, that would result in him getting out of this alive. But his eyes - his damn, fucking  _altered_  eyes - kept betraying him, growing distracted and fixating on the bright ochre of this person's bangs, the dark, rich red scarf tucked against his unshaven chin, the pale near-white of a faded scar on his cheek.

"So what is it?" the man pressed quietly, shifting his weight on his hooves, "You a bank robber, cattle rustler, womanizer? You ain't all sunshine an' roses to begin with, but you must've done something."

Distracted by the movement of his legs, seeming to give the colorful shadows playing on the muscles new vibrancy and life, Asa didn't reply, gaze traveling over the expanses of smooth ginger hide absently, transfixed.

Abruptly, the centaur let out a rush of air through his nose, like a snort, taking a step back but not lowering his weapon, "What the hell? You're doin' it  _again._ "

Asa blinked, wariness returning, "Doing what?"

"Starin' at me. Starin'...  _Fixating_. What the fuck is your problem?" One of his hooves stamped against the ground, accompanied by an irritated swish of his tail. Asa imagined he saw his fingers tighten on the trigger of his gun, but he still didn't shoot. Though he seemed much less hesitant now.

Asa tried to bend his legs, unsuccessfully, and quickly broke eye-contact, staring at the yellow-ish ropes around his knees.

"Nothin', I'm not -" he began defensively, though he really shouldn't have had a reason to be defensive when he was all but bound and gagged, literally at gunpoint in a basement where no one would even hear him if he called for help, "It doesn't matter. Just get it over with."  _Fuck it. I ain't getting out of this alive, who am I kidding?_

"Langley." The man said shortly, harshly, a command...but he still didn't move to pull the trigger.

Asa sighed heavily, but kept his gaze on his knees, "You're my soulmate," he forced out extremely quietly, barely above a whisper.

"Sorry? Didn't catch that."

"Look, why the fuck does it matter? Just do it. Shoot me."

He heard a click, and imagined the man's arms tensing, "Not 'til you tell me what the hell's been going on."

"This is fuckin' stupid," Asa grumbled, grinding his teeth together, "Fine. Turns out you're my fuckin' soulmate and ever since I looked at you everything's been in fuckin'... _color_...so excuse me for bein' distracted, but the whole world's fuckin' upside-down right now."

There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence. Eventually, Asa couldn't take it anymore and looked up. Seemed there was no longer a pistol pointed at his head. Instead it was hanging in the man's hand, at his side, and his face had changed from an expression of frustration to one of resignation. Not what Asa had expected. He would have thought he'd see skepticism or disbelief, not just...tired defeat.

"What?" he asked blankly.

The centaur said nothing, returning the gun to its holster at his hip, and pulling out a knife instead. Advancing a few steps without a word, he slashed the ropes binding Asa's legs, then reached around to free his wrists. He barely gave Asa enough time to realize that, at such a close, personal proximity, the intensity of the colors emanating from him was almost painful to look at; strangely raw and thrilling, like staring at the sun. They left imprints of green and purple behind his eyelids when the man stepped back.

It didn't occur to him to stand up for a long moment, but once his survival instincts snapped back awake, he quickly did so, scrambling to his feet and ignoring the persistent ache of his head and the burn of his wrists.

"What's this about?" he snapped, crossing his now-freed arms warily, "You get cold feet? Or hooves, rather..."

The man sighed deeply, keeping his gaze averted and slipping the knife back into his belt, "It ain't your concern. You're free to go, so go."

"What's your name?" Asa asked.

The man blinked, startled, and looked back at him, expression guarded, "Rook. James Rook. Why d'you ask?"

"Do you have somewhere to sleep tonight, James Rook?" Why he would offer a bed to a person who'd just been about to blow his head off was beyond him, but then...if Rook had really wanted to kill him, he would have already. He'd passed up a perfect opportunity to do it.

Rook was silent for a few seconds, and then gave a seemingly-decisive flick of his tail, "No. Are you offerin' one?"

Asa shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets, "Maybe."

Rook's eyes narrowed slightly, "Why would you wanna do that? I tried to kill you."

"But you didn't," Asa muttered, giving him a careless smirk, "And let's just say...I don't want to lose track of you."

"...Pardon?" Ah, now  _there_  was the completely dumbfounded look he'd expected to get earlier.

"Put it this way: you give the world some color...you figure it out." With that, he walked past the immobilized centaur and headed for the cellar stairs, "You coming or not?"

Rook hesitated again, then let out a rueful laugh, and trailed after him, "I must be outta my damn mind."

X

James was hard-pressed to keep from snorting as he followed his uncertain company. When exactly he'd become so reckless, so careless, he didn't know.  _Must've been the war...fuckin' stomped out all my common sense._

But then...when did he become such a soft-hearted fool? That he couldn't even complete one simple, straightforward job without bringing up conscience and justice issues? He'd had Langley tied up like a goddamn Christmas present, practically asking to be shot through the head, and he still couldn't make himself do it?

It was all because of that stupid word he'd decided to throw at him, not knowing it was the last thing he'd wanted to hear.  _Soulmate._  He had thought he'd gotten out of that madness for good, and would never have it brought up around him again. It was way too complicated a mess for him to deal with, but he'd still...subjected himself to dealing with it. Let Langley live, let him go. He was just too stubborn - just too  _stupid -_  to leave the past in the past, he supposed.

It turned out Langley didn't really have a house, and simply slept in a single bedroom that branched off from the bar, a little small, a little drafty, but better than any of James' other options.  _At least it's not up any more goddamn stairs…_

And honestly, after all Langley's chattering before, it was strange for him to fall so completely silent as he made up his own bed and tossed a quilt and a pillow or two on the floor, presumably for James' benefit.  _Still have no idea why he's bein' so charitable to me...It ain't like he owes me anything, an' I did kind of tie him up and put a gun to his head. Just 'cause the world's not black an' white for him anymore…_

It still was for James; everything was still just flat shades of grey, nothing seemed out of the ordinary...which was a little puzzling, but not enough to warrant any serious thought. He figured this seeing color thing must have been like measles or something...if you'd already had it once, you couldn't get it again.

Sighing to himself, he unfastened his belt and let it fall to the ground with a heavy thunk, though not far from his makeshift bed, in case he needed to arm himself quickly. Lowering himself to his front knees, he folded his hind legs underneath him and tried to get comfortable, rolling onto his side and stacking the pillows he'd been given under his head when this proved futile.

"Rook?" Langley prompted quietly, peering down at him from the edge of his bed.

James grunted a noncommittal response, looking away from him.

"What d'you plan on doing tomorrow?" He paused, "Can't very well go back to whoever hired you empty-handed."

"Then guess I won't be goin' back, will I?" James muttered at the wall, "Don't ask questions you know the answers to."

"Then what will you do?"

James rolled it over in his head for several moments, but couldn't formulate any solid plan. He'd thrown a wrench in his previous one, and now… "Guess I'll figure it out as I go. I ain't got anything better to do."

He didn't know if that response was enough to satisfy Langley's prying, but he fell silent again, and further conversation didn't seem forthcoming, so James simply shifted against the floor and the pillows and tried to get to sleep, resolving to sort out a new plan of action in the morning.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Yeah so I haven’t updated this in awhile, I...haven’t really been feeling it, but lately I’ve been getting back into this comic and I figure I did have things planned for this story, I should probably help them along as far as I can.  
> This chapter features explanatory war flashbacks, gratuitous centaur sex, and rather liberal headcanons for a character that was never actually introduced in the comic.))

The most dynamic explosion that day didn’t come from a landmine. Amidst the chaos and the carnage and the wet, screaming hell of battle, something much more powerful, much more potent, struck without warning, with the force of a shock wave. Out of the thousands fighting and falling and dying on the battlefield, only two soldiers were even aware of the phenomenon.

The thunder of hooves had signaled the arrival of the cavalry, sweeping in to relieve the battered, exhausted troops with more guns, more men, and more hearts alive with the spark of determination and hope. James had heard them come, even if he couldn’t spare a glance between firing and slashing and rearing up to tower over his tiny adversaries, striking with his front hooves before plunging down and kicking out with his hind ones. He was completely engrossed, shouts and gunfire ringing in his ears, cutting down foes without deigning to look them in the eye, letting their bodies fall like sacks of grain, heavy and lifeless, to the ground.

A stirring battle cry and a clatter of hooves sounded directly behind him, and he reflexively whipped around, close-range knife in hand ready to rend and disarm, only to connect with the steel end of another soldier’s bayonet. His wild eyes flitted over a tattered uniform identical to his own, and muscular, dappled haunches shifting and bracing to block the impact.

“Watch where you point that thing,” the stallion snickered, and as James lifted his head, their eyes met.

For a split-second, everything around them froze in place. Bullets whizzing toward their unsuspecting targets seemed to hang in mid-air, men charging headlong into the bloody fray seemed to turn to statues, even the wind annoyingly blowing dust and hair into soldiers’ eyes seemed to go still and stagnant. For a split-second, James was isolated from the war, from the world, from everything in existence except for himself and the man who had halted his knife. He didn’t even know his name, but in that split-second, he understood...something. Something enormous that caused the very ground to shift under his hooves, and the very air rushing into his lungs to leave him dizzy. Then time seemed to catch up with him once again, and something flashed outside his peripheral vision. The dappled stallion’s eyes widened, but, still reeling, James didn’t have time to evade the blade that sliced at his face, and fire crawled across his cheek as blood burst before his eyes. But it wasn’t black now, as it always had been before; it was startlingly vibrant, alive with energy and _color_. Bright red, almost purple, seeming to wash away the sting of his outraged skin entirely with the numb shock that crashed over him.

He heard a gunshot ring out, echoing right beside his ear, and then the person who had caused the very world to stop spinning took him roughly by the arm and led him at a gallop, likely deaf in one ear but certainly not _blind_ , away from the chaos and the killing and into the forest’s waiting refuge.

He was shaking when they stopped, far enough from the skirmish in the field to not be caught up in it, but still able to hear the maddening screams and explosions in the distance. It didn’t even register with James that he had just retreated against orders, on the whim of a fellow soldier he had never before met, nor that he was still bleeding freely from the face. He couldn’t stop staring at the his own hands, at the ground under his hooves, at how the autumn leaves clashed together like fire; he had never seen anything so bright. Eventually, it did occur to him to look up at his rescuer.

“Well at least you’ve still got two good eyes,” the man remarked, the freckled skin around his nose and eyes crinkling as he smiled, “Thought that bastard was gonna take off your head.”

James said nothing, feeling like his tongue was too heavy to manage speech, fixated unconsciously on tiny tan freckles and the light of amusement dancing within eyes that had changed his world in the span of a moment.

“Sorry for dragging you outta there, but...I had to talk to you,” the man went on, looking him up and down with some mixture of relief and astonishment, “An’ I was afraid if I tried to do it there I would’ve ended up talkin’ to a corpse before long. What’s your name?”

“James Rook,” James replied instinctively, standing straighter as a force of habit that had been deeply ingrained into his head over the last few months.

The man smiled again. James thought fleetingly that he would have taken on the entire Union army single-handed if it meant he could see that smile thrown his way.

“I’m Kit Cromwell. You should get that cut looked at; it ain’t deep but it could still be trouble, and then you’ll have more t’ worry about than your good looks.” His gaze flitted over the fresh wound briefly, and then trailed hungrily along James’ face and body, unhurried and focused, glittering with appreciation and awe.

“What?” James asked blankly.

Cromwell glanced up again and gave him another flash of that light, carefree smile that didn’t belong in this place torn apart by war and hatred and death. James felt something clench around his heart.

“...Nothing.”

 

***

 

Oddly enough, James kind of wished his injury had been more serious. He was to be detained only long enough for his wound to be cleaned and bandaged, told to rest and recover for the night before he rejoined the infantry and set out from the camp at daybreak. Then he and Kit Cromwell would, of course, be going their separate ways, and though he understood the necessity, some part of him wished to drag out the time until they had to be apart. He’d only just met the man he could tentatively identify as his soulmate, and it seemed cruel to be torn away from him so abruptly.

So he supposed he would just have to make this one day count.

The sun was already beginning to set when he finally managed to slip away, the short letter scrawled on a neatly folded scrap of paper -- which he had received in secret upon leaving the medical tent an hour or so before -- clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He forced himself to walk, the soft grass silencing his hoofbeats, despite the energy and excitement zinging down his legs urging him to run, to prance and buck and kick up his heels like a fresh spring colt; to hell with dignity, and secrecy.

Under the cover of trees at last, he allowed himself to pick up the pace to a brisk trot, watching the fiery canopy of leaves pass overhead with something like childlike wonder. An emotion he almost didn’t recognize in himself. He couldn’t remember ever being amazed by something so simple.

He reached the edge of a clearing in the woods, where the dying sunlight painted the grass and leaves in luminous streaks of golden orange, and for a moment he was struck by the natural beauty of the place. Then he was pulled from the brief, odd reverie, completely willingly, as a voice called out to him.

“James Rook,” there was a hint of teasing in Cromwell’s expression as he approached, but there was something else in his voice. Something like gratitude, something like longing, and oddly enough, something like an apology.

James took a step, and held out the hand with the note still folded in it, presenting it to him. “You were awfully specific about the where an’ when of this little rendezvous.”

Cromwell blinked, and then, to James’ surprise, tossed back his head and laughed out loud. “Was I? Well, I suppose you could say I’m rather detail-oriented…” He shifted, and moved a few steps closer, sleek muscle working under his speckled white hide. When they were satisfyingly face-to-face, he spoke again in nearly a whisper, eyes half-lidded but still charged with intent. “An’ somethin’ of a romantic.”

Before James could respond, their lips had crashed together, Cromwell’s hand reaching up to hold the back of James’ neck; powerful, insistent, as they both dove into each others’ mouths at the same moment, desperate to taste and know one another. James closed his eyes against the almost painful, sudden brightness and intensity of the colors of Cromwell’s face, and assumed Cromwell must have done the same. The hand holding Cromwell’s letter fell to James’ side, the slip of paper dropping from his grasp, and the other wrapped around the small of his back, pulling him closer; hearing his hooves thud against the ground as he stumbled forward slightly, a moan released softly against his mouth. Then eager, fumbling hands were working at his uniform, briefly breaking the heated kiss to pull it over his head, running his hands quickly but firmly over the exposed skin of his chest, down to his navel before whispering over the line where skin and chestnut horsehair met. James’ back arched into the touch, a gasp tearing from his lips.

“Touch me,” Cromwell breathed against his uninjured cheek, taking the top of his ear lightly between his teeth as his fingers traced around to his withers, nails digging beneath short fur to graze the skin.

James complied, and their front legs tangled against each other as he stroked his hands down the ribbed surface of Cromwell’s barrel, along his spine and up to his shoulder blades, taking the thick, crude cloth covering his torso in his grip and impatiently stripping it away, leaving both of them naked and panting, eyes meeting for an instant before they were kissing again, hard and messy, teeth clicking together as fingers tangled in each other’s hair, petting and pulling and needing to hold on and feel.

James was breathless when they broke apart, and could see how Cromwell was likewise struggling for air, chest and flanks heaving and damp with sweat. He couldn’t help glancing down, catching a glimpse of the flushed, hard length of Cromwell’s cock peeking out of its sheath, and felt his stomach tighten with nerves and anticipation.

“I ain’t got all night,” he prompted, trying for boldness, but the declaration still came out somewhat ragged and shaky.

Cromwell chuckled softly and let his hand trail down James’ shoulders, “Well patience is a virtue...but I s’pose I’ve tried yours enough.” His smile slipped into a knowing grin as he tilted his head to James’ own straining arousal. “We’ll cut to the chase, then.”

With that, he stepped back slightly, circling around to James’ side and passing a hand over his flank and hind leg appreciatively. James shifted his weight on his hooves, twisting his upper body to watch him restlessly and trying to keep from shivering at the gossamer touch. Cromwell kneaded gently at his croup before bringing his hand back, brushing it against James’ tail, which instinctively moved aside for him. James thought he saw a smirk cross Cromwell’s face, as he dipped lower, grazing his fingertips against his entrance tantalizingly.

James expelled a sharp breath through his nose, resisting an urge to paw with impatience. “I thought we were cutting to the chase,” he prodded.

“Relax,” Cromwell murmured serenely, smoothing his fingers up and down beneath the base of James’ tail, “We’ve still got daylight...and I want to savor you.” James’ eyes flitted closed and he nodded, dropping his head and letting him do what he would. For a moment those gentle fingers simply caressed and teased, but then warm breath was puffing lightly against James’ entrance, and he grit his teeth around a yelp as Cromwell’s tongue pushed against him.

“Fuck --” he protested weakly, cut off by another slow lick before the tongue was again replaced by fingers spreading the moisture around.

“Easy,” Cromwell soothed, slowly pressing one of the digits into him, “Nice and easy, James, I’ve got you…”

Exhaling heavily, James nodded again, his legs trembling slightly as a second finger, then a third, gradually stretched and opened him up, spreading apart and driving into him before retracting entirely. He whimpered, clapping a hand quickly over his mouth as if that would erase the sound, biting down on his own knuckles as he waited, empty and in agony, tail lifted and hind legs spread like a mare in heat.

He felt Cromwell shifting, his forelegs grappling around James’ body, the blunt head of his impressive erection nudging against James’ entrance as he mounted him. Fingers dove into his hair, and at the same moment that teeth bit down on his shoulder, Cromwell drove hard with his hips and sank into him, hooves finding purchase against the ground, breathing rough and humid against his neck. James groaned low in his throat, the sound muffled by the hand he kept over his mouth, and pushed back against him.

“Yeah?” Cromwell panted, thrusting into him again and striking home, sliding their bodies together and wrapping his arms around James’ waist.

James couldn’t answer, any response he could have attempted interrupted by a strangled moan upon the next driving thrust, eyes squeezing shut so hard that brand new colors flashed behind them. He burned, he ached, hardly able to stand it; he was sure he was dripping onto the forest floor.

Cromwell’s whole body shuddered above him, his hands wrapping tighter around James’ chest, and his thrusts became faster and more urgent. He grunted, pressing his forehead against the back of James’ shoulder, and as he slammed into him once more, James went taut as a bowstring and cried out, releasing jets of white that spattered his own underbelly and legs. Cromwell was close behind, surging into him twice more before his hips stuttered and he spilled into him with a drawn-out groan, sagging against James for a moment as they both shook and gulped desperate breaths that never seemed to provide enough air. Then Cromwell carefully got off of him and brushed up against his side, and he turned his head to accept the much slower, gentler kiss that was pressed to his lips.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Cromwell murmured when they broke apart, stepping back and simply looking at him, flushed and still panting, with rapt amazement on his face, "James Rook. My soulmate… _Mine_ ,” he added emphatically, as if he liked the taste of the word.

“Yours,” James agreed, in a hoarse whisper.

They stayed like that, just taking in one another and committing each other to memory, for a few seconds, but then the spell was broken as they simultaneously seemed to agree that if they looked a moment longer, they would be unable to turn around and part ways.

 

***

James couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt this relaxed, this ready and eager for something to come, and oddly...this complete. He’d only shared a day, a brief collection of words and moments, with Kit Cromwell, but there was something healing about the very existence, the very idea of him. And the potential for the future, after they both got out of this war and found each other again, as he knew they would. For the first time in a long time, he felt like things would turn out alright...whatever else happened, as long as he could be beside the person whose face lit up when he looked at him, who had thrown the whole world suddenly and completely into color, in the end.

He didn’t think he’d ever allowed himself to dream of such things. He had been raised on practicality and logic, with no space for all these whimsical emotions, no space even for hope for the future, merely understanding and planning for the present moment. But that spark of connection, that soul-deep, fated attraction...he’d never experienced anything like it, and none of the facts and reasoning of the mind could explain it.

The hardest part, he realized, would be the wait. Maintaining the importance of that moment that had stopped him in his tracks and opened and _changed_ his eyes, throughout the months and possibly years until the end of this war. The hardest part would be throwing himself completely into the training and battles to come until the last one was won and the struggle was over. The hardest part, surely, would just come down to toughing out the time and distance until they could be together again.

He in no way could have prepared for what the hardest part turned out to be. Over a year had passed since he had locked eyes with the person who had altered his world in a flash. A year of slogging through the separation, and of little reminders in the beautiful array of colors accompanying each sunrise and sunset, in the clear, crystal blue of the sky while the rest of the land was locked in snow and ice, in the shocking, scarlet blood that erupted from dying soldiers’ chests and heads and soaked deep into the ground. A year living in a world enriched by color, only to have it suddenly and unceremoniously ripped away.

He had been trudging along with the infantry, at the head of the pack with his fellow quadrupedal soldiers. It was warmer than it had been all month, and the last of the snow seemed to have finally released its grip and receded. Silence had reigned for a good half hour, spliced here and there by idle chatter among the ranks, but it was shattered entirely as without warning, an echoing, crackling _bang_ sounded, clear as day, in James’ head. Spooked for a split-second, heart pounding, he bolted a step or two before it sank in that no one else seemed to have heard the sound. They kept marching on, heads down; only one or two even looked up in confusion at James’ actions. James himself hardly had time to recover from the shock before he was hit with another, when he blinked only to open his eyes to a world shrouded in shades of grey, not a single varying hue even in the sky, or the new blades of grass emerging defiantly from the frozen ground. Panicked, he looked down at his hands only to find them likewise colorless, even the striking hair of his own coat had lost its reddish cast. If this had not been enough to tell him, then the gradually more pronounced emptiness and crushing sorrow eating its way through his chest and gut would have told him that not a moment ago, Kit Cromwell, his soulmate, had died.

 

X

 

James jerked awake, one hind leg striking out in an instinctive kick, nearly hitting his head against the wall of the cramped, drafty room he had spent the night in. It was still dark, the only light coming from the moon looming outside the window, striping the floor and the walls and the slumbering form of Asa Langley with pale silver bars. He was breathing hard, sweat clinging like ice water to his chest and face, soaking into the hair covering the lower half of his body. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he closed his eyes, trying in vain to summon the vivid colors from the familiar dream that hadn’t visited him in years. He could never imagine them bright enough, and could remember the humorous lilt of Cromwell’s voice and the light dancing in his eyes more than what color they were. The idea of anything but grey simply didn’t make sense in his head anymore, he could no longer understand it.

Sighing, he braced against the floor and clambered to his hooves ungracefully, leaving the room, and Asa Langley, as quietly as he could. Once he was in the deserted bar, he reached in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a cigarette, striking a match deftly against the counter and bringing the stick of smoldering tobacco to his lips. He wouldn’t be able to sleep again tonight, he knew from experience, so he just leaned against the bar and watched the light grey smoke swirl against an equally colorless backdrop. Something in his chest still ached, a remembered echo of the ruthless, incessant pain that had taken hold when he’d been suddenly and violently made aware of his soulmate’s death; of a single lead ball hitting its mark and stripping away all the possibilities, all the intentions, and all the color from the world. He remembered the many sleepless nights that had followed, the tossing and turning and dry, raw sobs of grief silenced against his own hands as he tried to keep from waking the sleeping foot soldiers on either side and having to answer their impossible questions. He had never mourned anyone before, or since. Kit Cromwell had been in a league all his own, and he didn’t intend to replace him, or worse, risk the unbearable agony of loss again. But he couldn’t bring himself to inflict that pain upon Langley, either; he wouldn’t have wished it on his worst enemy...so he supposed he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

 

TBC

 

 


End file.
